Chapter Twenty.
Memory the Twentieth—The New Prisoner.
I had no idea that Achille was well enough to go on with the lessons, neither had anybody in the house; for Miss Furness had just summoned us all to the French class, and my mind was, to a certain extent, free from care and pre-occupation, when I heard a most horrible snarling and yelling, and crying for help. Of course I darted in agony to the window, when it was just as I had anticipated—just as I knew, by means of the electric current existing between our hearts—Achille was in peril; for the horrible dog had attacked him, and there he was in full flight.
As I reached the window, the wretch leaped upon him, seizing his coat, and tearing away a great piece of the skirt; but the next moment poor Achille made a bound, and caught at one of the boughs of the cedar he was beneath; and there he hung, with the horrible dog snapping and jumping at his toes every time they came low enough.
It was too bad of Clara, and whatever else I may look over, I can never forgive this; for she laughed out loudly in the most heartless way, and that set all the other girls off wildly, though Miss Furness, as soon as she saw what had happened, began to scream, and ran out of the room.
Only to think of it, for them all to be laughing, when the poor fellow must have been in agony! Now he contracted, now he hung down; then he drew himself up again, so that the dog could not reach him; but then, I suppose, from utter weariness, his poor legs dropped down again, and the vicious brute jumped at them, when of course poor Achille snatched them up again—who wouldn’t?—just as if he had been made of india-rubber, so Clara said. Such a shame, laughing at anyone when in torment! It was quite excruciating to see the poor fellow; and if I had dared I should have seized the poker and gone to his assistance. But, then, I was so horribly afraid of the wretched dog myself that I could not have gone near it; and there poor Achille still hung, suffering as it were a very martyrdom, with the dog snap, snap, snapping at his toes, so that I felt sure he would either be killed or frightfully torn. All at once, for I really could not keep it back, I gave a most horrible shriek, for though James was running to get hold of the dog, he was too late.
The beast—the dog I mean, not James—had taken advantage of poor Achille’s weariness, leaped up and seized him by one boot, when nature could bear no more weight, and I saw the unhappy sufferer fall right upon the dog; when there was a scuffle and noise of contention, and the cowardly animal ran yelping and limping off upon three legs; while Achille, looking pale and furious, stood straightening and brushing his clothes, and trying to put himself in a fit state to pay his visit.
That was the last I saw; for the next thing I remember is Mrs Blunt calling me a foolish, excitable girl; and they were sopping my face with cold water, making my hair all in such a wet mess, and the salts they held close to my nose were so strong that they nearly choked me.
“There, leave her now, young ladies, she is getting better,” said Mrs Blunt; for the horrible sick sensation was certainly going off, and I began to awaken to the feeling that Achille was safe. Then it struck me all at once that I must have fainted away from what I had seen, and the thoughts of those around being suspicious nerved me to rouse myself up and hide my confusion.
They wanted me to give up my French lesson that morning, but I declared that I was so much better that they let me go in, and I really did expect just a glance; but, no, he was like a piece of marble, and took not the slightest notice either of Clara or poor me. Then, too, he was as cross and snappish as could be, and found great fault, saying everything was disgracefully done, and that every one had been going back with the French ever since he had been away. But I did not mind that a bit; for I saw how it was making Miss Furness’s ears tingle, which was some consolation, seeing how hard she had been working us, and what a fuss she had been making, as if she were Monsieur Achille’s deputy; and really I was getting jealous of the tiresome old thing.
I took my snubbing very patiently; but I could not help feeling terribly angry when he rose to go, and, with an affectation of bashfulness, Miss Furness followed, simpering, looking, or rather trying to look, in our eyes, as if she were engaged. But I followed too, almost as soon as the door was closed; and to my rage and disgust I found the hall empty, with Achille’s hat still standing upon the table, so that he could not have gone.
“They must have gone into the drawing-room,” I muttered.
And then once more my head began to swim, for I felt raging—jealous; and it did seem a thing that, after all I had suffered and done for his sake, I was to be given up for a dreadful screwy thing, old enough to be my mother at the very least. But I would not faint this time, I was too angry; and stepping across the hall, I opened the drawing-room door, softly and quickly, and walked in just in time to see that base deceiver, Achille, kissing the hand of the old hypocrite. And how they did both flinch and cower before my indignant glance!
Miss Furness was, of course, the first to recover herself, and step forward in a vixenish manner, just as if she would have liked to bite.
“And pray, Miss Bozerne, what may be your business?” she exclaimed.
“Oh, I merely came for my wool-work,” I replied, in a tone of the most profound contempt; and, sweeping across the room, I fetched a piece of work that I knew to be under one of the chair cushions, and then I marched off, leaving Achille the very image of confusion, while as for Miss Furness, she was ready to fly at me with spite and anger.
I kept it up till I was outside the room, and had given the door a smart bang, when I rushed upstairs, and past Mrs Blunt, who called to me in vain to stop, and then to my bedroom, where I locked myself in, and had such a cry, as I dashed down the wool-work, and threw myself upon the bed, to lie with my burning cheek upon my pillow, and water it with my tears.
Rage, vexation, disappointment, love—I’m sure they were all mingled together, and sending me half wild. Only to think of his turning out a deceiver!—to leave me and go and pay court to a woman of forty, with a yellow skin, scraggy neck, and a temper of the most shrewish! I was so passionate then, that I jumped off the bed and ran to the glass, and if it too was not a deceiver, and did not tell me a story, I was handsome. But I vowed that I would be revenged for it all; and I stamped up and down the room, thinking of what would be the best way; but, somehow, I could not think of a plan then, so I lay down once more, and had another good cry.
“Never mind,” I said.
Then I raised myself upon my elbow, and just at that moment some one knocked.
“What is it?” I cried, after whoever it was had knocked four times, and would not go away.
“Mrs de Blount says that she requests you to descend directly,” said one of the younger pupils.
“Tell her I have a very bad headache,” I said, which really was a fact; and then I would not answer any more questions, for I was determined not to go down until all the marks of my crying had faded away, which I knew would not be for some time.
“Miss Furness won’t make me afraid of her any more,” I said to myself. “I’ve mastered her secret; and Achille dare not tell of me, for fear of betraying himself. I’ll serve them both out.”
I lay nursing up my wrath, till I felt obliged to cry again; and then, when I had done crying, I again picked up my wrath and nursed it; and so on, backwards and forwards, till all at once I started up, for there was one of those hideous German brass bands. A set of towy-headed, sleepy-faced boys were blaring out “Partant pour la Syrie” in the most horribly discordant manner, till James was sent to order them out of the grounds, when, to get the dreadful discords out of my head, and my mind more in tune, I took advantage of a permission lately given me by Mrs Blunt, and slipped quietly down into the drawing-room, which was now empty. Sitting down to the piano, I rattled away at “La Pluie de Perles” until my fingers ached again, when I took up something of Talexy’s, and I suppose it was all emotional, for I’m sure I never played so brilliantly before in my life—the notes seemed quite to sparkle under my fingers, and I kept on rattling away till I was tired, and dashed off the great finishing chords at the end.
Then I slammed down the piano, spun myself round upon the stool, and jumping up, I was about to make a pirouette, and what we girls, in happy, innocent, thoughtless days, used to call a cheese, when I gave a start, for Mrs Blunt was standing there with a lady in walking costume, who was smilingly inspecting me through a great gold eyeglass, just as if I were some curiosity; and, of course, instead of the pirouette, I made one of the spun-out, graceful obeisances so popular at the Cedars.
“One of our pupils,” said Mrs Blunt, in her most polite tones. “Mrs Campanelle Brassey—Miss Bozerne. Young and high-spirited, you see,” she continued, smiling benignantly upon me, just in the way that she had done when mamma was with me, and never since. “Young, happy, and light-hearted. Just at that age when life has no cares,”—couldn’t I have pinched her. “She adores melody—quite a daughter of the Muses.”
“Charming gyirl,” said the lady, smiling. “Sweetly featured—so gazelle-eyed. Most unaccountably like my Euphemia.”
“Indeed!” said Mrs Blunt. “How singular! They will, no doubt, be like sisters.”
“Charming for Euphemia, to be sure,” said Mrs Campanelle Brassey. “It will make the change from home so pleasant, and she will not pine.”
“No fear of that,” said Mrs Blunt—“ours is too home-like an abode.”
“No doubt,” said Mrs Campanelle Brassey. “And then there is that other charming gyirl—the one with the sweet, high-spirited features—the one you just now showed me. Lady—Lady—Lady Somebody’s daughter.”
“Lady Fitzacre’s,” said Mrs Blunt.
“To be sure,” said Mrs Campanelle Brassey. “Why, your establishment will be most enviable, Mrs Fortesquieu de Blount; for I’m sure that you will have the Three Graces within your walls.”
“Oh, fie!” exclaimed Mrs Blunt, playfully; “you are bringing quite a blush to the face of our young friend.”
My cheeks certainly were tingling, but it was only to hear them talk such twaddle; and I knew well enough now that they must have been looking on for some time, while Mrs Blunt only let me keep on strumming to show off before the visitor; for if it had been one of the girls who played badly, she would have been snubbed and sent off in a hurry for practising out of her turn.
For a moment, though, I felt a pang shoot through me—a jealous pang—as I thought that, if this new pupil came, she might bear off from me my Achille; while the next moment I was ready to laugh scornfully from the recollection that I had no Achille, that he was already another’s, that men were all false and deceivers, and that I could now turn satirical, and sympathise with Clara.
However, I showed none of the painful emotions sweeping through my breast, but took all in good part, and allowed Mrs Campanelle Brassey to tap me with her eyeglass, and kiss me on the cheek, which kiss was, after all, only a peck with her hooky nose; and then she must take what she called a fancy to me, and march me about with them all over the place, and call me “My love,” and “My sweet child,” and all that sort of stuff, when she was seeing me now for the first time; but, if I had been the most amiable of girls, but plain, like Grace Murray, instead of showy and dashing, she would not have taken the least mite of notice of me.
Yes: really, this is a dreadfully hypocritical world!
“My Euphemia will be charmed to know you, my love,” said Mrs Campanelle Brassey, looking at me as if I were good to eat, and she were a cannibal’s wife—“charmed, I’m sure.”
“I sha’n’t be charmed to know her,” I said to myself, “if she is as insincere as you.”
“I’m sure that you will soon be the best of friends. It will be so nice for her to have one to welcome her directly she leaves home, and, of course, we shall have the pleasure of seeing you on a visit at the Belfry during the vacation.”
Of course I thanked her, and thought that if I liked Euphemia I should very likely go home with her for a while, since all places now seemed the same to me, and I should require some délassement.
“This is one of our classrooms, my dear madam,” said Mrs Blunt, opening the door where all the girls were sitting, and just then Clara came across from the practice-room, with her music-book beneath her arm, for Mrs Blunt had taken care that Mrs Campanelle Brassey should not stand and hear her hammer away at the old ting-tang. Clara told me afterwards that she stopped as soon as the door opened. But then Clara never could play a bit, and I must say that she knew it, though, as I before said, her sketches were lovely.
“Charming, indeed,” said Mrs Campanelle Brassey, inspecting the girls through her glass, just as if it were a lens, and they were all so many cheese-mites.
Just then I exchanged glances with Miss Furness, but I was not going to be stared down; for feeling, as I did, fierce and defiant, I just contemptuously lowered my lids. Next moment the door was closed, and we went into the dining-room, and then upstairs to the dormitories.
“What a charming little nest!” exclaimed Mrs Campanelle Brassey, when we entered our room at last, after inspecting, I think, every chamber in the place—for everything really was kept beautifully nice, and neat, and clean; and, though plain, the furniture and carpets were tasty and nice—“what a charming little nest! Three beds, too! And pray who sleeps here?”
“Let me see,” said Mrs Blunt, affecting ignorance, “this is your room, is it not, my dear? Ah! yes, I remember; and you have Miss Fitzacre with you, and who else?”
“Miss Smith, ma’am,” I said, quietly.
“Ah, to be sure, Miss Smith,” said Mrs Blunt.
“Not a very aristocratic name,” said Mrs Campanelle Brassey, smiling, and twirling her eyeglass about. “Pity, now, that that bed is not at liberty; it would have been so charming for the three girls to have been together night and day. I suppose that you could not manage to change the present order, Mrs de Blount?”
“Shall I give up my bed, ma’am?” I said, quietly.
“Oh, dear me, no—by no means,” said Mrs Campanelle Brassey. “I thought, perhaps, as I had seen Lady Fitzacre’s daughter and yourself, and you seemed so much of an age, that it might have been possible for the young person of the name of—er—er—”
“Smith,” suggested Mrs Blunt.
“Yes—er—for her to be exchanged into another room.”
Mrs Blunt thought that perhaps if her young friend did not object to being separated she might possibly manage it. And really I hoped she would; for any one, even Celia Blang—little spy that she was—would have been better than poor Patty.
“But I really should not like to introduce my dear child here at the expense of doing violence to anybody’s feelings,” said Mrs Campanelle Brassey.
“Oh, no! I know you would not wish that,” said Mrs Blunt; “and really, if Miss Smith objected at all to being removed, I don’t think I could—er—I should like to—to—”
“I see, perfectly,” said Mrs Campanelle Brassey; “and I quite admire and appreciate your system, Mrs de Blount. But what does my young friend here say—would she object to such a change being made? Would she not miss her friend, the young person of the name of—er—Jones?”
“Smith,” corrected Mrs Blunt; for somehow the vulgarity of the name seemed too much for Mrs Campanelle Brassey.
“I should be very glad to see the change,” I said.
“And about Miss Fitzacre?” said Mrs Blunt, with such an air of hypocritical interest, looking all the while so innocent.
“Oh, I’m certain that she would be glad,” I rejoined. “In fact, ma’am, I have heard her say so. Miss Smith is very young, ma’am,” I said, modestly, “and has never been a companion or friend to us.”
And then I felt very much afraid lest Patty should hear of what I had said, and repay me by telling all she knew.
“No; I should never have expected that from what I have seen of your two charming pupils. Mrs de Blount, that they would have had feelings, sentiments, or emotions in common with a young person of the name of—Jones.”
“Then, if your daughter wishes it, my dear madam,” said Mrs Blunt, “I think we may venture to say that the matter is settled to your satisfaction. You see,” she continued, “that when a new pupil arrives, I look upon mine as quite a maternal charge—one that embraces all that a mother owes to her child, with that of the teacher and trainer of the young and budding intellect.”
“Exactly so,” said Mrs Campanelle Brassey, nodding her head.
“And therefore,” continued Mrs Blunt, apparently much encouraged—“therefore, my dear madam, I try to study pupils’ comfort and wishes, even in those which some people might consider trivial things. I study, as far as I can, the present as well as the future; so that when, strong-winged, these young birds take flight, they may always in their happy futures—”
“Certainly—happy futures,” said Mrs Campanelle Brassey, nodding her head; “certainly, after such training.”
“Happy futures, look back,” continued Mrs Blunt, “to the days when they were at the Cedars, and feel a tear dim their eye’s brightness—a tear, not of sorrow, but of regret.”
“Very true,” said Mrs Campanelle Brassey. “I quite agree with you, Mrs de Blount. Charming sentiments.”
“And therefore, you see, had there been any dislike to the alteration upon our young friend’s part,” said Mrs Blunt, “I should not have liked to make the change.”
Yes: she actually said all that, just as if she believed it, and even smiled at me as she spoke; while, I declare, I almost felt dumb-founded to hear what she said.
The Cedars certainly must have been a most delightful place to motherly eyes, for at every turn go where we would, Mrs Campanelle Brassey was lost in admiration, and found everything charming; and she did not scruple to say so, and to such an extent that I grew tired of hearing her. But that did not matter, for there was no getting away; and I had to go with her, into the dining-room again to have some cake and wine, which I had to ring for, and then go and sit down by the side of the visitor, who seemed to know by instinct which would be the softest couch.
James brought in the wine, and when I was asked, as a matter of course, I ought to have declined, and said, with a display of Cedar deportment, “No, thank you;” but I did not intend anything of the sort, and said “Yes,” for I knew that Mrs Blunt always had the best sherry brought out for the visitors, and was in consequence terribly stingy over it. So I said, “Yes, if you please,” and took a glass, while she was obliged to smile all the time; for I did not mean to be walked about, and talked at, and talked to all day for nothing.
But at last I was set at liberty, and went off to the schoolroom to discuss the coming of the new girl, who was so handsome and charming in every respect, till Miss Furness returned from the drawing-room, where she had been to be introduced, and desired us to pursue our studies, when, of course, we were all very industrious for quite five minutes.